


Untraceable

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Consent Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Manhandling, season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6016852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For one week, three days and seven hours, John thinks Harold Finch is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untraceable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YanaGoya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YanaGoya/gifts).



For one week, three days and seven hours, John thinks Harold Finch is dead.

There's no body, and normally that would make him suspicious as hell. But he sees the explosion with his own eyes. He stands there and watches the building burn. There isn't so much as a charred stick of furniture left when the fire finally goes out. The mansion—a trap, though John hadn't been in time to see it—is nothing but a flat, empty cinder. 

There's nothing left. And any trace of Harold Finch is gone for good.

John tries to tell himself Finch would've preferred it this way. Not being dead, of course, but the fact that his death is completely untraceable. No one will be able to use his teeth or his fingerprints or his DNA to track down the history he hid so meticulously. It doesn't make John feel any better.

He hasn't hurt this way in a long fucking time. It's unpleasant to discover that he still can.

There is no funeral. Without a body to bury, there's no point. Harold Finch made a habit of not existing, and John wouldn't know what name to put on the gravestone anyway.

For the first five days, John is split stubbornly in half. He knows with grim and dreadful certainty that Finch is never coming back. At the same time, senseless desperation keeps an ember of hope alight, somewhere so deep rational thought can't touch it. He convinces himself Finch will materialize out of nowhere, same as always, because Finch can't be dead. Finch may be paranoid and private, but he's also the only foundation John has to stand on. He's sturdy, and he's reliable, and he can't be gone.

So John tries to find him. He calls in favors, digs deep, uses every trick he knows.

He fails.

And when the ember of hope goes out, it leaves the suffocating pain of a black hole in John's chest. Sharp. Staggering. Ragged and awful. It nearly takes him to his knees.

There's no denying the truth after that. Surely Finch wouldn't do this to John. Even if he could, he would never sacrifice all the people whose numbers are surely still coming up. Those numbers never stop. John might not have access to them anymore, but that doesn't stop them from existing. And for all the gaps in his information, John knows Finch is not a man who could walk away from the responsibility they share.

John drinks that night. Alone in HQ, the musty smell of library and abandoned building all around him, he drinks until the edges of the world are slippery and smooth. He sits in Finch's chair, staring at dark computer screens. He could boot them up, but there's no point. Without Finch's passwords and failsafes, John will only trip over layers of security, and inadvertently wipe the drives clean.

His chest hurts, and he spins slowly in the chair, turning his back on the array of equipment. He catches a glimpse of the list on the wall—Finch's meticulous mural of numbers and photos and colored string. John keeps spinning until he's looking at nothing but empty gray wall, then slumps in his seat. It's not just his chest that hurts. There's a painful tightness in his throat, a spasm in his right hand where he's clenching it too tightly around the arm of Finch's chair. There's the stark edge of a less physical pain, worse by far than the rest.

John holds a bottle of whiskey in his left hand. He raises it to his lips and takes a long drink.

Fuck. He knew he was getting too attached. He's known for weeks, maybe months—there's no excuse for letting his guard down. There's even less excuse for letting himself start to care. John is far past _caring_ now, and into something he's done his best not to dwell on. There's a possessiveness in his chest when he thinks too hard about Harold Finch. A certainty that, little information as he possesses about his prickly and paranoid partner, Finch belongs to him. The reverse has been true even longer. Maybe John has been screwed since day one.

Even with Finch gone those feelings linger, clawing at John's insides like failure. He doesn't know when he first looked at Finch and felt want instead of curiosity. He doesn't care. It's not as though he ever intended to say anything.

It's not as though Finch would have been anything but horrified at learning what was going on inside John's head.

And John doesn't care about that. He honestly doesn't. It isn't missed opportunity clouding his thoughts and souring his mood. It isn't some misplaced regret over never giving voice to his feelings. John is no sentimental poet to moon over lost chances. He's a practical man. He only mourns what he's actually lost.

A friend. A _good_ friend, unlikely as it seems—John's closest and perhaps only—and the loss hurts. It burns low and steady in a way John knows from experience will never entirely fade.

Worse, when Finch left—when he _died_ —he took away John's entire purpose for existing. Without Finch, John has no access to the machine. He can't touch the list of numbers that are the only way he knows to atone for everything he's done. Finch gave John a gift when he offered him a job. He gave John something worth fighting for.

Those numbers still exist, but John can't access them. With Harold Finch gone, no one can.

The next night, instead of drinking, John hits the street. He still has a job to do. Without access to the machine's 'irrelevant' list, there's only one way he can do it. By going in cold and keeping his eyes open. He prevents two assaults and a mugging. It's not enough, but it's all he's got.

The night after that he invites himself along on one of Fusco's arrests. Turns out to be a good thing he's there. Fusco's backup never shows—probably not random chance—and six drug dealers against one cop isn't exactly a fair fight. John takes his time putting all six of them down. He doesn't kill them. But he really, _really_ wants to.

Fusco gapes at him after, mouth ajar like a startled fish.

"Problem, Lionel?"

For a moment he thinks Fusco might actually answer. Call John out for enjoying the rush of violence even more than usual. Point out how difficult it's going to be explaining six severely wounded criminals to his superiors. He might even ask John what's wrong—an offense John will certainly _not_ forgive.

He waits, bristling and on his guard.

"Nah, no problem," Fusco finally answers. "Get the hell out of here, I gotta call the precinct. And a whole fleet of ambulances."

John keeps his private vigilante efforts to himself the next night. And the night after that.

It's daylight, and John must be hallucinating when Finch slides into a diner booth across from him and signals the waitress for a cup of coffee. But when John kicks Finch's shoe under the table he feels real enough. And surely the waitress wouldn't return with a fresh mug if Finch weren't actually sitting there waiting for it.

John stares. For the moment his anger is held at bay by raw confusion. "Where the fuck have you been?"

Finch doesn't actually touch the coffee the waitress has placed before him. He doesn't answer John's question. "We have a new number, Mr. Reese," he says. Like Finch showing up this morning is perfectly normal. Like it's the same as the dozens of times they've had this conversation before. 

Like he was never gone.

John's breath catches on an instant of clear-as-crystal rage, and he almost reaches across the table for Finch. To do what, he doesn't even know. Shake some sense into him. Shake some answers out of him. Just dig his fingers into Finch's arms and hold on until John's grip leaves angry bruises in its wake.

He sits perfectly still instead. He recognizes the anger, sets it aside. They have a new number and a job to do.

It hurts how easily they fall into the same routines, how simple it is to pretend everything is normal. They work well together, even now. Intuitively. They're a powerful team. The knowledge does nothing to settle the rattle of feelings barricaded low in John's chest.

They stake out a bank in the middle of their investigation. Finch's intel says their target won't make his move until three a.m. It's eleven o'clock now. They can't afford to chance that they're wrong, but it's going to be a long fucking night.

Silence is usually comfortable between them. Tonight it eats and eats at John, until he hears himself speak in a dry, angry rumble.

"I want answers."

Finch is always cagey, but his hesitation now speaks of excessive caution, and when he answers it's in a voice gone soft. "The explosion didn't—"

"I don't care about the explosion," John snaps. The words are true, if sharper than he intends. He _doesn't_ care about the explosion. The explosion only mattered when he thought it had killed Finch. Now that he knows otherwise, the specific circumstances are irrelevant. He doesn't want to know _how_. He wants to know _why_.

"If you're concerned about the numbers you missed in my absence, you needn't worry. I hired independent contractors to handle the two situations that arose. Not an elegant solution, but they did the job well enough."

John's jaw clenches. "I don't care about that either." It's a transparent lie. He does care—he's so relieved his head spins—but this path, too, is avoiding the real answers he needs from Finch.

"Then what do you want to know?"

"Where did you go?" John asks. " _Why_ did you go? Why did you let me think you were dead?"

Finch doesn't answer for a long time. Long enough that John takes his eyes off the bank across the street to turn and lock angry eyes on him. 

He glares. And waits. And when Finch still doesn't reply, John growls, " _Harold_."

Finch inhales sharply, then answers with obvious reluctance. "I was hiding from you, John." It's not often Finch addresses him this way, and the sound of his name sends a shiver the full length of John's spine.

" _Why_?" There's something dangerous in the low gravel of John's voice, this one word barely above a whisper. Not a threat, but dangerous just the same.

This pause is more contemplative than hesitant, though Finch's voice is still heavy when he admits, "You're an excellent partner, Mr. Reese. I've found myself growing...attached...to you. And you know how dangerous such vulnerabilities can be in our line of work." Finch stares straight out the windshield as he speaks, his stiff posture somehow holding even tighter than usual.

John gapes. He's too angry to admit Finch isn't the only one taking risks and getting attached. He's too startled and hurt at the idea that _becoming friends_ led Finch to fake his own death and leave John in the dark.

"I needed time. And space," Finch continues. "Solitude to think some difficult questions through."

John doesn't ask what Finch could possibly have needed to think through. Instead he scowls and says, "I could've given you those things."

But Finch's stiff posture shifts in the passenger seat of their borrowed van, and he captures John with a look both knowing and heavy. "Could you, Mr. Reese? Really?"

John growls and tears his eyes away, flopping back against his seat and glaring out the window.

They finish the job quickly. There's no new number for them in the morning. Even once they return to the library, there's only expectant silence hovering in the air. John doesn't know why his pulse is such a wreck, or why his chest feels so full and tight.

He doesn't know why there's nothing but heat and gravel in his voice when he says, "We need to talk, Harold."

Finch doesn't look alarmed exactly, but the caginess is back in force when he meets John's eyes. "You only call me Harold when you want something."

John's jaw clenches, his throat convulsing in a hard swallow. There's no number. No case to make him shunt his own feelings aside for the greater good. There's only the abrupt flood of emotion in his chest—anger, relief, desperation—all roiling inside him, sudden and fierce. The feelings ricochet through him in a violent rush, and suddenly he's moving. Charging forward without conscious intent, without purpose or thought. Reaching for Finch with incautious strength and shoving him back, and back, and back.

Finch's back collides with flat, dusty wall. His eyes widen with surprise, comically large behind thick lenses, but there's no twist of pain in his expression at the impact. John looms close, crowding into Finch's space, unsteady and—for the first time since he agreed to join Finch in this mad vigilante business—uncertain.

John's hesitation doesn't last. There's too much fire surging in his blood. Not just anger—nothing half so simple as anger—but a dozen other feelings, each as potent and overwhelming as the first. Finch is trembling beneath his hands, where John's fingers clutch with unforgiving strength at Finch's arms, effectively pinning him to the wall.

"Mr. Reese—"

John leans down and cuts him off with a thoughtless kiss.

The press of John's mouth is hard and greedy, and in that moment he doesn't care if Finch wants this. If he cared—if he were thinking clearly enough to wonder—he wouldn't be doing this at all. 

John has always watched Harold Finch closely; he's never once caught Finch watching him back. Not like this.

But the rage in John's chest is smoldering alongside a different flavor of heat, and he wants this. He doesn't just want it. He needs it. John burns with a desperation that sets his hands to wandering, restless and frantic as he forces his tongue past Harold's startled lips. 

John _needs this_ , god damn it. Just for a second. Just until Harold tells him to stop.

But Harold isn't pushing him away. Harold isn't fighting him. Harold is standing perfectly still beneath John's mouth and hands, allowing whatever this is to play out. Harold's glasses are crushed awkwardly between them, high on the bridge of his nose; and when John draws back to suck hot, sharp kisses beneath Harold's jaw, he makes a grab for those glasses—fumbling them off Harold's face one-handed and tossing them aside. 

Harold's pulse point jumps beneath his tongue. And when John catches soft skin deliberately between his teeth, the sound Harold makes—the choked, startled gasp of surprise and maybe something else—is enough to leave John rock hard. Harold is clutching at John's shirt now, breathing hard and _still_ not pushing him away.

John nuzzles lower along Harold's throat before breathing a gruff curse and reclaiming his mouth. Harold isn't quite so motionless now. He makes no effort at all to protest when John fumbles for his belt buckle—when John busts the zipper of Harold's perfectly tailored pants—and slides his hand inside. John can taste the breathless moan, when he finds his target and curls steady fingers around Harold's cock. The faint trembling along his front shakes harder, and John's hips buck ineffectually forward in search of friction.

He ignores the clamor of his own body's needs, in favor of taking Harold apart.

It's not enough. It's nowhere near enough. John wants—

He _wants_.

He falls perfectly still just short of the finish line, and Harold breaks from beneath his frantic kiss with a groan of heat and frustration. John holds motionless. Never mind that he still holds Harold pinned uncomfortably against the wall. Never mind that he still has his hand down the front of Harold's pants, the warm weight of arousal still encircled in his firm grip. Never mind that John can barely breathe through the deafening clatter of hunger in his blood.

He makes himself open his eyes—hadn't even realized they were closed—and finds Harold watching him.

"Tell me to stop," John breathes, feeling helpless and lost.

Harold is breathing hard. His gaze, addled but warm, cuts down to John's mouth before rising to meet his eyes.

John inhales shakily, suddenly terrified of the desperation guiding his hands, guiding his voice when he says, "If you don't tell me to stop, I'm going to fuck you." God, he wants to fuck Harold Finch. Suddenly he's desperate to know if Harold wants that, too.

Impossibly, Harold's eyes focus and steady. "It's not my job to absolve you, Mr. Reese." It's not a yes—not exactly consent—but it's far from the refusal John was expecting. There's something in the familiar, sardonic way Harold addresses him, something simultaneously formal and intimate. It lights fresh fire in John's blood, and he kisses Harold again, resuming his efforts.

His hand moves in measured strokes, knuckles grazing the broken zipper as he steers Harold closer and closer to the edge—up and up—and abruptly over, relishing the muffled sounds as Harold comes.

John draws back with reluctance. He still looms close, bracketing Harold against the wall with the weight of his body, savoring his warmth. But he surrenders the kiss for want of air, and he slips his hand free of Harold's pants, wiping his fingers dry on the leg of his own trousers. He watches Harold, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the heavily closed eyes, the kiss-bruised shape of his mouth. John waits for Harold's eyes to open, and thrills at the diamond-bright clarity he finds there.

So much for Harold not looking at him.

"I don't suppose there's a bed in this place," John murmurs. He seriously doubts it. Finch is too paranoid to sleep in the same place he's hidden his life's work.

"No," Harold confirms. Then, with a spark of mischief behind his eyes, "But there is one in the safe house two buildings down."

Reaching the safe house is a torture of keeping his hands to himself, of trying to will down his own arousal until he and Finch are locked safely away from prying eyes. The safe house is just an apartment: studio, small, barely a kitchen and no closet space. But there's a bed, as promised.

There's also an end table drawer stocked with lube and condoms. John arches a deliberate eyebrow; Finch just mirrors the expression as he removes his glasses—undamaged from John's previous careless handling—and sets them aside before crossing the room to double check all six locks on the door.

John doesn't try to protest that the locks are fine, that he _just locked them_. Because he understands. He's not going to prevent Finch from double checking the locks just to be sure.

But the second Harold finishes, John is on him, hard and fast. There's renewed desperation kindling beneath his skin. The urgency has been mounting with every step, every moment of not having Harold beneath his hands. John grabs and shoves, maneuvering him toward the bed while crushing him close. He isn't careful, and he isn't gentle, but Harold only gasps and moans and allows himself to be manhandled across the room and out of his clothes.

There's no hurry now, but John still feels the frantic edge of urgency beneath his skin as he strips down himself. He grabs for Harold again, naked skin beneath his hands now, and claims a kiss that's almost violent with need. This time it's Harold who guides them the rest of the way across the tiny studio apartment, right to the edge of the bed. Harold who drops down onto the mattress first, and actually smiles when John growls and follows.

By the time he fucks into Harold's body, John is nearly out of his mind. He stretches his weight along Harold's back, pressing him down into the mattress—above and inside him—John's senses wired bright and hot as he thrusts deep and then forces himself to stillness. He's holding Harold down, pinning him hard, and he bites Harold's shoulder—not to tease, but to ground himself. To make sure this is real.

The rational corner of his mind can't quite believe it's real.

Beneath him, Harold's breath hitches, Harold's fingers clutching helplessly in the pale pillow at the head of the bed. His hair, strange at the best of times, is in complete disarray, and John nuzzles the side of Harold's throat, tasting salty skin.

John's voice is rough, and he draws his hips back and thrusts in again, as slowly as he can bear. "Do you like how that feels?" His lips tease at the shell of Harold's ear. "The way we fit? Having my cock inside you?" Possessiveness rumbles beneath the questions, and he thrusts again, maddeningly careful.

Instead of answering with words, Harold pushes back to meet the next thrust, inviting John to a harder rhythm. He does it again when John keeps his movements sensual and slow. Testing John's patience, straining his willpower.

"You sure that's how you want it?" John asks. He barely recognizes his own voice through the thick gravel of desire.

" _Yes_ ," Harold groans. "For god's sake, John, I _won't break_." The words are a challenge. They're a plea. They burst across John's senses like a signal flare, and the last of his failing restraint crumbles away.

He drops one hand to cover Harold's, bracing his forearm against the mattress and squashing the pillow as he uses his arm for extra leverage, thrusting harder now. Out and in, hard enough to make the bed creak angrily as John finds a new rhythm. There's a bonfire of feelings in his chest, all of them complicated. Fondness, fear, need, anger. He's still furious with Harold for putting him through hell; he'll stay furious for a good long while. But that's not what this is about. That's nowhere near the fiercest thing John is feeling right now. It's not the emotion knocking him squarely, painfully n the chest.

John honestly hadn't thought he still had the capacity for love. It's terrifying and thrilling—awful and incredible—to realize he was wrong.

He doesn't say Harold's name when he comes. But he curls forward with the last of his increasingly uneven thrusts, stilling with his cock buried deep, burying a shout at the smooth junction of Harold's neck and shoulder. Harold stills at the same instant, choking back a muffled cry of his own as John's body goes lax and limp above him.

They don't linger in the afterglow. Neither of them is the type—at least, John's not anymore, and Finch doesn't seem inclined to laze about—and anyway the numbers never stop. It seems like no time at all before they're both clean and dressed. Aside from Finch's busted zipper, quickly hidden beneath the dark line of his coat, neither of them looks like they just tumbled in for a quick, frantic fuck. 

The juxtaposition is surreal, and John finds himself wondering what Finch is thinking. He wonders just how quickly his partner will deem what they just did a mistake.

Finch pauses at the door, forcing John to stop just short of barreling into him. Finch has already undone all six locks, and the door stands barely ajar. The sudden halt makes John reach for his gun, senses stretching to high alert in search of the threat.

"It's all right, Mr. Reese," Finch says, intuiting his unease. "There's no danger."

John's shoulders relax and he leaves his gun in its holster. "Then what the hell, Finch?"

"Just this." Then Finch stretches up for a kiss so quick John doesn't have time to react. When Finch retreats, there's an amused ghost of a smile hovering at one corner of his mouth. "Shall we get back to work?"

"Yeah," John mutters, and follows him into the hall.


End file.
